


Snapshot of a Rather Eventful Morning

by peaches2217



Category: Vocaloid
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Smut, because there is a SERIOUS lack of top!Oliver in literally any smut that involves him, important note at the beginning btw, love me love me love me do, top!oliver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 08:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15529956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peaches2217/pseuds/peaches2217
Summary: If this was how every day could start, Oliver might just consider becoming a morning person.





	Snapshot of a Rather Eventful Morning

**Author's Note:**

> It's occurred to me only recently that, while these two are aged up in my head, they're still 12 and 14 in canon. So I wanna verify right quick that in all of my fics, they're physically around 16-18 (Vocaloids in my fics aren't human, so while they can mentally/emotionally mature, they can't age: however, in my 'verse, Len [and Rin and Miku] got a physical upgrade at some point, while Oliver's always been physically mature and looks younger simply because he's short and his official outfit is several sizes too large).
> 
> Sorry. I just wanted to verify that I haven't been writing smut for prepubescent characters. This ain't that kind of profile.
> 
> Anywho, enjoy!

Considering they'd only woken up about thirty minutes prior, the day had already been a fairly eventful one.

Len kneaded his fingers into Oliver's hair as his mouth and tongue worked down from Len’s, breathing something like " _Don't stop, oh, oh please don't stop_ ". Oliver was more than happy to comply; slowly, teasingly, he ground his hips against Len and grazed his teeth over the skin of his neck. He was rewarded with a throaty groan, and Len untangled his fingers so that he could claw ever so lightly at Oliver’s back.

Wake-up sex hadn’t exactly been something they’d planned on, but one good-morning kiss led to another and, well, things escalated.

Not that Oliver objected. Oh, no, those desperate whispers of “ _I need you, I need you so bad_ ” were a good few thousand times better than an alarm clock. Golden hair splayed out over the pillow and crowned Len’s face, a lovely contrast to the rosy shade his skin glowed and the cerulean of his lidded eyes and honestly, that image alone would probably be with Oliver all day, give him an extra pep in his step. Yes, if this was how every day could start, he might consider becoming a morning person.

“ _So good,_ ” he crooned, ghosting his lips over the arch of Len’s ear. “ _So good, love._ ”

Len’s response was wordless, but it conveyed more than words ever could.

For brief moments Oliver would slip his arms beneath Len and hold him close, luxuriating in the sensations. Len’s skin, hot and sheened in sweat and gliding so easily over his: his movements — the subtle arching of his back as Oliver met him, the tilt of his head as Oliver’s lips traced the flesh beneath his jawline: the noises he made, the mindless nothings he uttered beneath his breath. (He was always so _talkative_ when he was like this, though his words rarely made sense.)

For shorter moments still, he’d pull back, taking in the sight beneath him. Len’s eyes would meet his for a moment, a deeper and more beautiful blue even than usual and sparkling in the morning sun. Then his lip would tremble, his eyes would become unfocused, his lids would flutter shut, and he'd tilt his head back into the softness of the cushion. A gentle tremor would run through him, starting at his core, making him twitch as it spread out through his limbs; he would lift a centimeter or two from the bed, a sharp and deep inhale filling his chest, a flush of color coursing over his skin.

Then he’d let out a _foooo_ of air, settling back into the sheets, and his eyes would open once more, adorning Oliver with a gaze of reverence and rapture and burning adoration.

At this particular instance, Len cradled Oliver’s face, drawing his fingertips over and around his ears and enticing a shiver from him. And then Oliver decided he’d seen enough for now, now he needed more, and he slipped his arms beneath Len and held him close and the process began all over again.

 _Beautiful._ That was the word that kept circling through Oliver’s head. _Beautiful, perfect, wonderful, flawless, lovely._ He couldn’t quite make up his mind; he wanted to see, but he wanted to feel, but he wanted to _see._

At some point in the midst of all of this, breaths became sharper, movements became quicker, and tender romance segued into something more intense, more driven by physical need. Len’s grasp became tighter and he wound his legs around Oliver’s waist, encouraging him to stay close, and Oliver held absolutely no objection. The less space between them, the better. He was more than happy to indulge, to touch and grasp and kiss and lick and rub and grind and thrust and absolutely lose himself, mind, body, and soul. And all the while Len tugged at his hair and made such sweet sounds into his ear and _oh_ , he was so… He felt so...

“ _Fuck!_ ”

The curse was hissed more than shouted, but nevertheless it sent a shock through Oliver. He’d been so lost in his own headspace that he’d lost all track of time. He worried for a moment that Len had gone over the edge or, far worse, he was hurt, but quickly saw neither to be the case. Len still had one hand tangled in his hair, the other pinching at the sensitive nubs on his chest.

“C’m _ooon_ ,” he murmured, peeking one eye open to look at Oliver while he made his request. “Ah, it’s so good, baby, I just need — ah...”

He tapered off, wiggling his hips to convey what his words presently couldn’t. Oliver slowed briefly to make sure he was reading the movements right: with each forward roll of his hips, Len tightened his thighs around Oliver and pulled him closer. Oliver pulled back long enough to get a comfortable grasp on Len’s thighs, just below his knees, and drew his left leg up to his own chest. Len adjusted his own position in turn, draping said extremity over Oliver’s right shoulder and wrapping the other leg around his waist.

Oliver could practically see the starbursts in his eyes when he resumed.

“ _Hhhaaaaah!_ ” Len all but yelled, digging his fingers into the pillow at either side of his head and thrashing under the sudden overstimulation (and nearly kicking Oliver in the back of the head). “Oh! _Oh — Ngoh!_ Holy _shit! Oliver!_ ”

Oliver found himself easily getting carried away right alongside him, savoring his cries, quiet vocalizations of his own slipping past his lips. Ah. He fought against the urge to close his eye and chase after pleasure. He wanted to see. He wanted to watch Len come undone, lose control, let loose as though his very life depended upon how loudly he could scream Oliver’s name.

In truth, as much as he loved their more quietly intimate moments, he loved watching Len put on a show just about as much.

He still remembered the first time Len had done such. (It was a memory he particularly enjoyed reliving whenever Len was away and Oliver had nothing to work with but his hand and the “collection” they kept in the bottom bedside drawer, though he was still rather embarrassed to admit as much.) At the time, he’d assumed it was just that — a show.

The first time Oliver topped, he was a nervous wreck, a wreck that required continual reassurance. Len’s encouragements were at first gentle: “You're doing so good”, “Mmm, that feels nice”, “You're amazing”, quiet sighs and low, soft moans as Oliver’s fingers became familiar. But once things got going full-swing, Len’s movements and noises became increasingly frantic, his words increasingly vulgar. At the time, Oliver believed it was all part of Len’s act, all done and said not out of actual pleasure or enjoyment, but because he was still trying to instill confidence in his notoriously unconfident boyfriend.

No, Len, as it turned out, had discovered that day that he really, _really_ liked bottoming.

Oliver was yanked out of his flashback by a sudden headrush, the beginnings of a tingling, pulsating heat pooling below his stomach.

 _No—_ He pulled out and as far back as he could with Len’s lower body still trapping him, squeezing his eye shut and holding his breath and forcing himself to think of nothing. _No. No. Not yet._ And then it passed, settling back where it belonged, and only then did he let himself gasp out an exhale.

No sooner did the urge pass than did Len whimper, pulling Oliver back to him with a growl of “ _Please, please baby I’m so_ close _, just a little more_ ”.

Just a little more. Sure. That sounded easy, as long as Oliver could just ignore the dizziness and the throbbing and the overwhelming need to give into what his body begged for. Yeah. Easy enough.

Whenever Len performed, he could jump and cartwheel and backflip all around whatever stage he was on and never miss a single note of what he was singing. True to such displays, his stamina was equally impressive in bed. Which was _wonderful_ when Oliver was on the receiving end. Otherwise?

 _Nnng._ Okay. Okay. He could do this.

He relinquished his hold on Len’s thighs and leaned fully over him, bracing his hands at either side of his beloved, and doubled down. Even as Len cried out again, even as Oliver felt his edge creeping back up on him, he commanded himself to block it out, to focus on nothing but his priority.

Len clung onto his pillow like a man at sea clinging to a life raft, his other hand a blur as he worked himself over. His eyes were scrunched shut, his mouth hung open in a continual assortment of pants and mewls, his face the shade of a particularly bad sunburn, his skin almost molten to the touch — _beautiful, beautiful,_ tightness eased with sweat and lubricant inviting and enticing Oliver to just give in, just let go.

Not even a millisecond before Oliver’s resolve broke, Len’s eyes flew open, and he choked out a grunt, his entire body seizing, the color in his face running down his neck and to his chest. Hurriedly, mindlessly, he bucked against him as furiously as he could. Then he shut his eyes again and threw his head back and made a complete mess all over his stomach, a mess that went unnoticed in the midst of his breathless whines of relief and bliss.

_Beautiful._

That was when Oliver’s arms gave out; he collapsed heavily against Len, finally, _finally_ permitting himself to experience that same bliss.

How long they spent laying there together and at what point they separated he didn't know, and he didn't particularly care. All that mattered was that Len was at his side, gazing blankly at the ceiling and gasping and shivering, completely unable to form anything resembling a coherent string of words and oh, it was such a magnificent sight. And no matter how many times it happened, no matter how many times he rendered this lovely and chatty boy speechless... it always gave him a little swell of pride.

In the time it took Oliver to reach into the top bedside drawer, retrieve the wipes they kept underneath a random guitar book, and turn back, Len had relaxed. His eyes gently rested shut, his brows were lifted, and he drew little puffs of air in and out through his open mouth.

The word didn’t even manifest in Oliver’s head this time. He just felt it, felt it in his very soul.

“Must you always act like every time is the best time?” he teased, running a wipe over Len’s still-cooling skin. Len shuddered at the cloth’s cold touch, a shudder that bubbled into a chuckle.

“Who’s acting?” He retorted with a cheeky wink, but otherwise remained silent, assisting Oliver in cleaning up. Once that was done and the wipes were disposed of, he snuggled against him, completely spent. “Mm. You know I love you, right?”

Oliver smiled, drawing him closer, running his fingers through Len’s dampened hair. “And why do you only utter words of affection when we make love? You only like me for my body, don't you?”

Len, Mr. “I-Have-To-Tell-You-How-Much-I-Love-You-At-Least-Five-Times-A-Day-In-Case-You-Forget” himself, laughed into the crook of Oliver’s neck. “You _do_ have a nice one.”

Another round of laughter passed between them before they fell silent, settling into the cozy warmth of their afterglow.

“...Thank you,” Len said after a period of comfortable stillness. His voice was cordial, sincere. “I, uh… Today’s gonna suck. So I really needed this.”

A sympathetic hum vibrated in Oliver’s throat. “Session with _that_ producer?”

“Yup.”

“Shall we schedule a tantric session for tonight then?”

“I dunno. I might need something a little more.”

“Just let me know if I need to set up the ropes or anything.”

“You’re the best.” Len pulled back now, propping himself up on his elbow. The lust had gone from his eyes and returned them to their icy color, all at once cool and comforting. “But at least I don’t have to go in until noon. And you’ve got practice at ten, right?”

Propping himself up in turn, Oliver winced. Right. He had outside obligations today as well. “What time is it now?”

Len twisted around to glance at their alarm clock. “Eight-thirteen.” When he faced Oliver again, he was practically beaming. “You doing anything between now and then?”

Oliver grinned. “Can’t say that I am.”

“Great.” Len leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips, sweet and chaste and a little shocking after what had just occurred. “Breakfast at Futsuyo sound good?”

“Breakfast at Futsuyo _always_ sounds good.”

Another kiss and a quick declaration of love, and Len pushed off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

And nearly faceplanted when he stood.

Oliver shot up to catch him, but Len righted himself before he could even get off of the bed. Still, Oliver watched him while he re-established his footing, just in case. Once Len was confident in his leg strength, he shot a glance over his shoulder, rubbing a hand at the base of his spine. “Seriously, thank you. I’m gonna be feeling this for a while. I think it’ll help make today a little more tolerable.”

And then he went right on about his business, humming a tune as he strode to the dresser and acting as though he hadn’t said anything at all, as though his boyfriend wasn’t blushing and struggling against another surge of arousal just behind him.

Once the surge was more or less suppressed, Oliver rolled his eyes, hopping from the mattress and joining Len in picking out an outfit. Yes, his thoughts would be pretty well occupied throughout the day as well.

He already couldn’t wait for tonight.


End file.
